


Five times John Smith & Rose Tyler saved each other from getting doused, and one time they didn't

by kilodalton



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2271165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilodalton/pseuds/kilodalton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school Ten/Rose AU. Self-explanatory =)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times John Smith & Rose Tyler saved each other from getting doused, and one time they didn't

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Ten/Rose high school AU which I wrote for the ALS fic-bucket challenge on Tumblr. This is my first 5 times fic, took me over a week to write and I worked really, really, really hard on it so I hope you like it =)

John wouldn’t say that it’s _gallantry_ which makes him intercede.

(He’s avoided such patriarchal terms anyway since he was ten years old and play-acting dragons and knights with his cousin Donna—he’d made the mistake of saying that she should play the fair princess, and he’d play her knight in shining armour, who would _gallantly_ save her from the dragon. She’d promptly grabbed his sword and told him she was actually the _queen_ , could fight better than he could, and that she was going to be _feeding_ him to the dragon for his insubordination. Ever since, he’d avoided trying to be a hero around girls—generally avoided talking to them altogether, actually—except in his stories, of course. Stories he’d show nobody, and God _especially_ not Donna. He’d head to the library after class and just read—and write—for hours on end. Everyone assumed he spent all his time studying—or well, _he_ assumed they assumed that—not that any of his classmates took enough interest in him to actually _ask_ ).

Sorry… where was he going with this again?

Ah yes. _Gallantry_. And the lack thereof. Anyway—just to be absolutely clear—he _definitely_ wasn’t going for gallantry here.

He doesn’t know Rose Tyler well, not any more than he knows the rest of his classmates—who all seem to actually enjoy being together, having parties together—determined to start their final year in school off right. Which is likely why Donna insisted he come to this ridiculous backyard party to begin with. Meet new people, “ _take the plunge_ ,” as it were.

Personally, he’d rather go home, back to his books—and most especially back to the story idea notebook lodged in the back pocket of his shorts. He’s not even sure why he brought it—he doesn’t want to advertise the fact that he works on his stories whenever he gets a spare moment, so it’s not like he’d take it out and actually _write_ anything in front of this lot.

Rose is standing a few metres away from him, as he leans as inconspicuously as possible against a wall, waiting for this party to be over. She’s wearing a thin white sundress, with only the barest trace of a bra underneath, and when she bends over and her dress clings to her hips, he can only make out the slightest hint of her thong.

(Not that he’s been staring. Much).

She’s happily gabbing to one of her many friends about… something. A sale at Henrik’s perhaps, that’s all that most of his classmates seemed to care about. Mickey and Jake are creeping up behind her with mischievous looks on their faces and a big bucket of… something wet and sloshy… in their hands.

The whole thing happens too quickly for him to say anything. He only intends to block their path, to tell them it’s not cool to douse her—which is what these idiots obviously have planned—but they’ve already crept so close to her, that when he steps in front of them and opens his mouth to inhale deeply—

_Splash!!!!!!_

The water is fucking _cold_ —a fact that he barely registers as his lungs begin heaving and coughing. It burns his eyes and he squints—what the hell was in it? Nothing worse than soap, he hopes. It runs down the long fringe over his eyes, trickling in frozen rivulets down his cheeks and nose. He gasps out a cough and shivers—his shirt is soaked, he can feel every fiber of his jumper clinging icily to his thin frame. His shorts are drenched too—

 _Shit_. His hands fly to his back pocket where his writing notebook and pencil are lodged. Thank god—it’s dry.

He squeezes his eyes shut in relief—and also to avoid the sudsy pain from the water—but can _feel_ everyone staring at him. Great. Just great.

“What the _hell,_ guys?!” he hears a female voice say. She sounds _angry_ —almost Donna-like. “Oh my god. John, right? Are you okay?”

“Oh c’mon, Rose, it was just a joke—” one of the blokes says.

“Yeah. Real funny Micks. Get him a towel. I can’t believe you two.”

“You said yourself it was hot Rose, just wanted to help you cool off—“

“I’m fine,” John sputters out, feeling like an afterthought in this conversation. What’s new, really.

He forces open his burning eyes, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe off his face and glasses. It leaves his skinny, hairless chest exposed for all to see—which was why he’d kept his jumper on in the first place, unlike half the blokes here—but the last thing he wants is these people’s pity. He doesn’t do much more than smudge his glasses, and blinks the remaining water out of his eyes to see the blurry face of none other than Rose standing in front of him.

Someone—Jake? Mickey? Who knows—hands her a towel and she unfolds it, standing on tiptoe to wrap it around his shoulders.

“C’mon,” she says, nodding out towards a sunny and mercifully empty part of the yard. “It’s warmer in the sun.”

He lopes towards the spot she’d directed, plopping himself on the grass. She sits down daintily on the lawn next to him, and he’s half surprised to find she’s followed him here—she must feel bad, he figures. He musters a grin which he hopes comes off as reassuring, and she smiles back at him, something rueful in her expression.

Rueful. He likes that word, _rueful_. The syllables roll off the tongue and lips like a cartwheel. He’ll have to use that in a story someday. The metaphor could use some work though.

Anyway, she smiles, and it’s definitely _rueful_.

“Did you… did you do that on purpose?”

“Do what?”

She nods her head at his shirt.

“Oh! The bucket… yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking they’d actually _throw_ it so quickly, but… yeah, didn’t seem right to let them throw it on you. Especially because you’re wearing white and all.”

She looks down, smiling into her lap at a blade of grass she’s picked and is systematically peeling with her long, unpolished fingernails. She almost looks shy. “Yeah. That might have been a bit embarrassing.”

“Tell me about it,” he looks down towards himself, at his sopping wet shirt, then back up at the crowd. Everyone is back to enjoying the party, nobody’s even looking in their direction, not giving them a second thought. “You’d definitely have gotten more attention than me.”

“I dunno, think you caused a bit of a stir,” she teases.

He shrugs. “Well—I mean, I don’t really know anyone here.”

She leans back on her hands, arching an eyebrow. The way she’s sitting pushes her chest forward and he drops his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. “Oh c’mon, our school isn’t _that_ big. And everyone knows _you_. You’re always winning the science fairs, and the engineering contests—“

“Yeah, well,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. He doesn’t like talking about himself, never has. “It’s different for you.“ He gestures towards her. “You’re—“

“I’m what?”

 _Hot as hell. Obviously sweet. Popular._ And sitting so close that the curve of her tanned knee bumps against John’s pale skinny thigh, and he blushes and shrugs.

She laughs. “Well, you know _me_ now. If you’re warmed up, do you want to head back inside? The others aren’t so bad, really, when they’re not being arseholes. I could introduce you around… if you want?”

He shakes his head no without really even thinking about it—it’s an automatic response, conditioned from years of Donna asking him that same bloody thing.

“Nahhh, I’ll just sit out here a while,” he shrugs.

“Okay,” she says, and he wonders if he’s imagining the disappointment that flutters across her face. “If you change your mind though, let me know, ok?”

“Okay,” he says, nodding.

“Anyway… it’s nice to meet you, John,” she says. “And thank you again.”

She leans in towards him slowly, her lips grazing against his cheek in a kiss, and the brief gesture does more to warm him up than sitting in the sun for the past few minutes has done. She clambers to her feet, pulling down her sundress and brushing the grass off the skirt as she stands.

“See ya then…”

“Yeah. See ya.” He smiles.

\--

The school year starts off as bland and boring as the year before. He starts off by spending just as much time in the library this year as he normally does, which would be fine except that _everyone_ _else_ is spending more time there, as well. This is their last year before uni and their classes are all a bit harder… and more stressful. The library is no longer his escape, the quiet place he enjoys for writing and for peace. ( _Especially_ not since Donna and her new flame Lee have taken to joining him there every single day. It’s like they _live_ in the damn place).

It all adds up to the fact that his getaway—his second home, really—has become yet another place for him to escape _from_.

As a result, he’s taken to leaving campus right after school. He’s become a bit of a nomad, wandering off to unplanned parts unknown as soon as the final bell rings. He only has one regular stop—to the corner store for a soda and a packet or two of crisps and biscuits. Him and half the rest of the school, which is the only drawback. This place isn’t exactly a hangout, more like a waystation—somewhere for his classmates to talk, eat, loiter.

 _Loiter_. God he sounds like an old man—an old man in a skinny teenage body. That gives him an idea—that could be compelling, maybe he can work it into his story somehow. He quickly takes his notebook from his pocket, scribbles down a few lines so he doesn’t forget the idea. Maybe that can be his protagonist—an old man—an adventurer—who looks much younger than his years. It’s an idea, at least.

Anyway, back to crisps and biscuits. And soda.

He grabs the first bottle of Coke he sees on the refrigerated shelving. It’s cold, but only barely—the kids who work here never rotate the merchandise, but he can’t really bring himself to care. Today, like every other day for the past few weeks, he pays, shoves them into his backpack next to his pencil case, and heads towards the door.

He sees her—Rose, that is—standing by the door with her friends. She gives him a wave—not just a friendly little ‘hello’ wave, like the ones they’ve been giving each other for weeks now since school began—but the kind of wave meant to summon him, to pull him closer.

Not that he needs much more of an invitation when she looks at him like that.

He smiles—a greeting on the tip of his tongue, something suave like “hey there”—but she beats him to it.

“Don’t open that Coke.”

He blinks. “Um… what?”

“Some kid dropped it on the floor just a minute ago then put it back on the shelf. It’ll probably burst if you open it.”

“Oh… okay, thanks,” he says. He nods at the cashier, then turns around and places the bottle back on the shelving—further back, so hopefully nobody else would grab it before the bubbles had time to settle. He grabs a different Coke, smiles at Rose and places it in his backpack.

“So… where ya headed?” she asks, turning towards him as he steps back towards the door.

He shrugs. “Around. I usually find a quiet corner someplace.”

“Someplace?”

“Yeah—anywhere really. I like to take a walk—find new places to explore, ya know?”

“And here I thought you just liked to hang out at the library,” she says, her tongue caught between her teeth in a coy little smile.

He almost blushes—both from the fact that she—hot, sweet, popular Rose Tyler is gently teasing him with that sexy tongue of hers peeking out from her mouth—and from the fact that she’d _noticed_ his habits.

He nods dumbly, and the words come out in a flood.

“Can be anywhere—last week I spent most afternoons under an awning on 5th and Derry. There’s a bookstore there—normally it’s busy, and a bit overrated, I don’t recommend it unless you like stuffy old books, or fancy stationary. But last week the owner was on vacation, so the whole place was closed up. They left the bench outside though, and with the awning there, it was—“

He looks up at her, takes a breath in his rapid-fire monologue. The quirk of her eyebrows makes her look vaguely bemused, and he blushes again.

“Nice,” she says.

“P-pardon?”

“It sounds nice.” She shrugs, readjusting the strap of her backpack over her shoulder. “So where are you headed today?”

He shakes his head, both as an answer to her question and as a reaction that she actually seems interested enough to _ask_.

“I-I’m not sure?” he says, and it comes out as a question all its own.

“Want some company?”

He nods. “Yeah… yeah sure, okay.”

She pauses, the wrinkle between her brows making her expression look a little uncertain. “I don’t have to, if you’d rather be alone—“

“No,” he says quickly. “No I really wouldn’t. I’d… I’d love for you to come along.”

She smiles, and loops her arm through his own.

“Well then, lead on.”

\--

After more than a month of exploring the town after school—arm in arm, if not hand in hand like he’s fast starting to realize he’d prefer—he begrudgingly realizes that Rose Tyler has even more of a knack for finding these abandoned places than he does.

It’s because she _talks_ to people, he realizes. She gets the inside scoop on everyone who’s gone away on holiday (they spend an entire week sitting side by side on the rocking chairs on Mrs. Miller’s front porch while she’s off in Ibiza, nibbling on crisps as he helps her with maths). She learns about new places, too (the alley next to the furniture store, with its numerous wooden crates that double as benches). She talks to _John_ as well—she tells him about losing her dad, and he tells her about losing _both_ his parents, and she squeezes his hand as if his loss somehow outweighed the heaviness of her own).

Her discovery of the nursery is a stroke of genius.

The Hedgeworth Gardening Club had commandeered a spot at the back of the school property for their greenhouse. There, they planted their mums and tulips and whatever other flowers might interest 60-year-old women with too much money and time on their hands. The location is perfect—it’s a stone’s throw from school, which means it’s not too far away from the corner store, which means as many return trips for crisps and biscuits as they want. She normally ends up buying the snacks, and they read, talk, study… and she pretends not to notice as he scribbles down story ideas in his notebook before shoving it back into his pocket.

All in all, it’s perfect. They spend all afternoon out there, every afternoon, for weeks: it’s their secret garden, quite literally.

It’s one of the last _nice_ days that’s forecast for September, and she’d toed off her sandals, letting the grass dance around her soles of her feet in the afternoon breeze. He can’t help but stare at her long, tanned legs, crossed at the ankle. She’s pulled up the hem of her dress ever so slightly—ostensibly to get some sun—and he turns away from her slightly, so she can’t see the reaction she’s having on certain areas of his anatomy.

For distraction, he pulls his notebook out of his pocket, flipping through it before replacing it. His story is coming together and he’s working more on the plot now… some sort of a dashing rescue perhaps? Maybe a caper or two. That sort of thing would work better if his protagonist had a partner in crime of sorts and he flicks a glance over at Rose. The thought of using her for inspiration makes him feel slightly guilty, but she’s so beautiful, and they’ve done _everything_ together these past few weeks—

“Whatcha writing?” she asks, and he stares at her. It takes him aback—this was something that was always left unspoken between them. He’d write, and she’d leave him to it. Simple and predictable as that.

“Just stories.” He muffles the words with a shrug. It’s more than he’s ever told anyone else.

“Like… creative writing?”

He shrugs again. “Yeah but… it’s nothing, really, just something I do to pass the time.”

“You work on them a lot though, don’t you? You bring that notebook along every day.”

He glances up at her, and she’s smiling at him gently. It makes him smile back, even though this line of conversation is uncharted territory he’d feel much more comfortable avoiding. “Yeah… guess I do.”

She pauses, and it feels like there’s a missed beat in the conversation, and he’s positive she’s going to ask to _see_ his notebook. He has no idea what he’d even say to that—he doesn’t want to say no to her—never to _her_ —but the thought of showing anyone his unfinished scribbles is absolutely, stomach-turningly terrifiying.

She might _laugh_. It’s not a chance he wants to take.

Before she has a chance to respond, he hears a loud hiss from the rows of half-bloomed mums in front of them, and his eyes dart towards the source of the noise.

It’s only then that he notices the line of pipe, half-covered by mulch. Sees the beginnings of a misty spray making its way out of holes lining the side.

He hears a loud click—then there’s a whoosh of air through the pipes—and—

“Runnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!” he shouts, grabbing her hand with one hand, and her sandals with the other. The sprinkler is spraying in full force now, the water splattering on their backs, falling fast and furious like an unexpected rainstorm. They run around to the side of the greenhouse, just clear of the sprinklers, chests heaving with laughter and exertion. They’re in full view of the rest of the school but for once, he really couldn’t care less.

Wordlessly, he dangles her sandals in front of her and she takes them, sliding them on. She disentangles her hand from his and for a moment he wonders if he’d been too grabby, if he’d held on to her hand for too long—but then she leans against his shoulder for balance. He smiles… he doesn’t mind that at all.

After a moment, she looks up at him, the mist from the sprinkler still suspended in midair behind her, beads of water coating her hair like dew. As a smile spreads across her face, he notices the rainbow reflected in the droplets behind her, hazy against the mist and the blonde of her hair. He swallows, taking it as a sign, and is just about to take her hand again, just to see how she reacts, when a female voice calls out to her—it’s her friend Keisha, he thinks (since he’s started hanging out with Rose he’s gotten _much_ better with his classmates’ names. Not that they’ve gotten much better with his).

“Hey Rose—I was just gonna text you! We’re meeting at Shareen’s in an hour to study for the maths test—want a lift?”

She looks up at John, with an apologetic shrug.

“We done for the day?”

He plasters a bright smile on top of his disappointment: it hadn’t even been an hour since classes let out. _Done for the day_... she’d made it sound like hanging out with him was a bloody task.

And what’s this about a study session… doesn’t he help her with maths whenever she asks? Sure he’s in a different class from her and her friends—he couldn’t help being put in the advanced class—but it stings a bit that he’s clearly not invited.

Even so, he nods brightly, and she gives his shoulder a quick, friendly squeeze before letting go and disappearing into Keisha’s car with her friends.

He’s suddenly glad he hadn’t had time to take her hand again. He ought to have known better. She’d never be interested in him.

\--

It rains for the next few days, which puts a complete stop to their exploring. When she’d asked, he’d told her the weather might put a damper on things for a few days and she’d giggled, rolling her eyes, thinking his pun was intentional (it wasn’t). But he’d smiled… at least he was able to make her laugh.

They don’t meet up again after school—no point really, with nothing to do and nowhere new to go, he has nothing to offer her. Not that he really ever _had_ to begin with. Instead, he simply goes home, planning to write… about travelling and going anywhere in the world, anywhere but here.

Scratch that—even better, he’ll write about travelling anywhere in the _universe_. Far more impressive.

As he steps out of the school building, he pulls his windbreaker tight around himself, drawing the hood over his head as best he can. His backpack will be drenched by the time he gets to the bus stop, but if he runs he should at least be able to keep himself dry—

“John!!”

He turns around, rain whipping into his face. Rose is standing half a block away from him, waving at him from under a large, sunny-yellow umbrella. He jogs towards her with a wave he knows full well is dorky, and she twirls her umbrella over her head with a big smile on her face, waiting for him. Somehow, she always seems graceful.

“Where are you headed?” she asks.

“Bus stop, then home. You?”

“Same, actually—want to share my umbrella?”

“Sure—thanks.”

He hunches down under the umbrella to meet her height and she laughs, raising it up over her head so he can stand underneath it comfortably without hunching down. Lifting it higher like that leaves her less protected from the rain, and droplets spatter across the front of her shirt. He offers to hold the umbrella—it’s easier for him that way anyway, so it doesn’t bang into his head as they walk, and she gives it to him. She puts her arm around his waist, tugging him close in a way he’s sure she probably just means as friendly, and he tries to angle the umbrella down over her, covering her as much as possible. Together, they set off down the street towards the bus stop.

Neither says a word, and their walk is quiet except for the sound of the rain splashing on the pavement, until she breaks the silence.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

He looks down to see she’s biting her lip, like she’s considering something.

“Would you—would you maybe like to come over for dinner tonight? Mum’s not much of a cook but she won’t be home for a few hours, we could watch telly if you’d like?”

Her eyes take on an expectant kind of hesitation, like she’s just gone out on a limb and is waiting for the other shoe to drop (and yes, he’s mixing his metaphors and he doesn’t really care—it still sums up the look on her face perfectly). He opens his mouth and has just started to answer her when her eyes suddenly widen.

He turns to see what she’s looking at and sees the car. It’s barreling down the street, faster than it probably should be in weather like this—and it’s causing a tidal wave of water from the gutter to splatter onto the pavement in its wake.

On instinct, he starts to move away—they’re directly in the path of getting splashed. Suddenly, Rose’s hand is in his, and she pulls him back as the car passes by, spraying water onto the pavement just where they were standing only a moment before.

They trip back against the brick wall of the storefront behind them, and she pulls him against her for balance. She’s flush against the brick wall, and he braces his hand on the wall by her shoulder so he doesn’t fall against her. He looks down… good god. The neckline of her shirt is low, and he can see the curve of her breasts from this angle, spattered with little droplets of rain. He feels her— _all_ of her—against his front, her soft breasts pressing into his chest. She feels so _warm_. Warm and wet.

He feels something stir low in his abdomen and he can’t help himself—he presses closer against her. His eyes flick up to her lips—they’re wet too, moist, and open.

And _soft_ , he thinks, as his head dips down and his lips brush against hers of their own volition. _God_ , she’s soft. It’s his first kiss, and he’s not quite sure what it’s supposed to feel like or where he should put his hands or if it’s normal that he’s holding his breath and that his heart is racing like it wants to run right out of his chest. If it’s normal that he can practically feel the blood rushing to his cock and that all he can think about is pressing against her harder. His nose bumps into hers and he repositions himself and captures her lips again—and as a squeaky, most-definifely un-sexy whimper escapes his throat he realizes what he’s doing.

What he’s done.

Shit. _Shit_.

Here he’s standing—half-hard, in the rain, pressing one of the most beautiful and popular girls in school against a brick wall.

He’s kissing her… and she’s not kissing him back.

He pulls away, and her eyes are wide.

“John…?” she says, and her voice sounds a little dazed. Her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes flick down to his lips and then back up to his eyes, like she’s confused.

She’s not the only one… _god_ what the hell was he thinking.

“I—um, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, stumbling as he takes a step back. He’s still holding the umbrella in his hand and drops it as if it were on fire.

Burning with humiliation, he turns and bolts away, rain be damned.

\--

He spends the next week completely avoiding her. They don’t have the same classes, or lunch period, and their extracurriculars are completely different so it’s much easier than he initially thinks it will be.

His after-school adventures? Those are a bit harder.

They’re lonelier without her somehow… oh, he still _goes_ , of course. As soon as classes are over he’s out the door, making a beeline across town, picking a new place every day. He spends most of his time writing—well, editing more like. He’s lucky he writes in pencil—he erases the parts about having a partner in crime, and whenever he catches himself doodling her picture in the corner he erases that, too.

He doesn’t go back to the greenhouse, or the corner store.

His gym class lets out late one day, and he heads straight for the shower stall to wash away the dirt from the game of football. Honestly, it had felt more like a game of keep-away—he wasn’t even the goaltender and yet he swore it seemed like Mickey was aiming straight at his nutsack with each kick.

No sooner does he turn on the showerhead—which as usual comes out with all the water pressure of a stream of piss—that it turns tepid.

Then cool.

Then fucking _cold_.

He shuts off the faucet and hears Mickey laughing behind him. “Sorry mate. Hot water heater’s busted.”

Arsehole.

He puts his clothes back on, knowing he reeks of sweat but not caring. Leaving the bathroom, he rounds the corner and nearly bowls Rose over. She’s wearing her gym clothes too—her cheeks are red and flushed (like the last time he’d seen her, he thinks with a wince). A towel is perched over her shoulder and she twines the end between her fingers. It’s a nervous gesture—she’s a fidgeter, he knows by now, and that’s one of her quirks. Has been since he’s known her, he thinks, remembering how she picked at the blade of grass in her lap the first time they met, all those weeks ago.

He wonders what _she_ has to be nervous about. It’s not like she’s the one who threw herself body and soul at the only friend she has at school.

“The hot water heater’s busted. I wouldn’t take a shower unless you want a cold one,” he says, figuring he can spare her the trouble of finding out for herself. As the words slip out of his mouth he realizes he’d completely deserve a snappy comeback about _him_ being the one to need a cold shower.

The comment doesn’t come: she doesn’t take the bait, instead looking down at the ground.

“Okay. Thanks,” she says. She doesn’t move, and doesn’t say anything more—and he shuffles his feet, wondering what the hell he should say or if he should just drop it entirely.

Whatever. Not like he could screw this up any more than he already has, plus she deserves an apology he’s been too much of a coward to give her. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry… about last week.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” she says, and there’s a limp, sad little chuckle under her words.

“No—I just… I just didn’t know what to say,” he says, and it’s both a lie because _yes_ he’d been avoiding her and _not_ a lie, because it’s true—he had no idea what to say to her.

“You just ran off…”

“I’m sorry—“

“You ran off and you’ve been avoiding me all week and it _hurts_ , John, it really hurts. I thought you and me, you know—“

“What?”

“I just thought—nevermind.”

She holds his gaze for just a moment and there’s undeniable hurt in her eyes, but her expression is still open—guarded, of course—but hopeful all the same. Like she’s reaching out to him, waiting for him. His heart is beating fast, telling him to _do it, do it, take the plunge and talk to her_ … but he’s still not sure what to say and his mouth stays shut. She starts to turn away and a small, dreadful little part of him relaxes, relieved. _Good_. He can let this drop now. Go back to his solo adventures—he’s starting to get used to them by now, eh?—and forget all about her. Chances are she’ll forget about him soon enough, too.

Who knows if he might see her again, if they would go back to being friends again after this. Likely not. She’d just given him a chance, he knows that—it was all in the look she gave him. Wanting him to reach back out to her, instead of pulling away, like he always does.

Well, he’s nothing if not predictable: he’s a fearless adventurer only in his stories.

But Rose… more than anything that’s what utterly floors him about her. How open she is… she always has been. She’s always been so willing to reach out to him—not just today, but even on that first day he’d met her.

It smacks him in the face in that moment—what the hell _is_ he so scared of, anyway?

Maybe that’s what Donna was getting at all along. If he keeps refusing to try something new—something that might be important enough to write itself into his life in permanent ink, something he can’t erase as easily as the pencil scratches of his notebook—he'd risk spending this whole last year in school having accomplished nothing at all.

(Oooh he likes that. It’s one of his better lines, actually. Lots of thematic symbolism, and quite a nice allegory. He’ll have to remember that later, work it into his story).

Her back is to him now and she readjusts the towel on her shoulder.

“Wait—Rose. Please wait. Please.”

She turns back around slowly, her eyes still on the ground. He steels himself up, taking a deep, deep breath and closing his eyes, like he was getting ready to leap off a diving board.

“I thought you didn’t like me… not in the way that I like you.”

She frowns, and looks almost hurt. “Why would you think that?”

He sighs. Here goes nothing.

“I mean, I kissed you and you…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand.

“I what?”

“… you didn’t kiss me back.” His voice is quiet, embarrassed, and _God_ he hopes no-one from the locker room is listening to this conversation.

At this, her eyes drop. “I wanted to. It was just… it happened quick, ya know? I was just a little surprised. But I wanted to. ‘Course I did.”

It’s stupid, he knows, but he can’t help but feel vaguely annoyed, and he corrects her. “ _Not_ of course…”

She crinkles her brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You _can’t_ be serious.”

“What do you mean?”

He can’t believe he has to spell this out for Rose—who, by the way, is as gorgeous as ever and radiant after gym class. And so unlike how greasy and sweaty and skinny and gawky he is in his crusty old gym clothes.

“Look at you, Rose—and look at me.”

She furrows her brow, looking annoyed now herself. “Yeah… yeah I know. You’re the smartest guy in school, John, you’re going places. And I need help in algebra. You’ve wasted so much of your time helping me—I _know_. I get it, okay?”

He stares at her. What on earth does she mean _wasting_ his time helping her—he’d never thought that, not once. Was that why she hadn’t asked him to the study group?

She looks down, and when she continues, it’s soft. “You just… you just don’t need to rub it in.”

“Rub _what_ in? I love helping you… it means I’m spending time with _you_! And Rose… you’re amazing.”

Although she’d just called him smart not more than a minute ago, she looks at him now like he’s completely daft.

“No—honest, you are,” he says. This time, he doesn’t hesitate, and he reaches for her hand, entwining their fingers. “You’re kind… and you’re thoughtful… and beautiful—and an incredible listener, and people _talk_ to you. They _like_ you. You’re everything I’m not, really, and I’m sorry…”

He takes another deep breath. God he feels lame. “… and I’d like another chance. If you want that too.”

She doesn’t respond in words, but squeezes his hand.

It’s a start.

\--

The weather stays warm for the next few weeks—much longer than John had expected it to. So much so in fact that the community pool delays its closing date—which allows his classmates, and the mothers with toddlers, and even a couple of members of the Hedgeworth Gardening Club if he’s not mistaken—to take their last, full advantage of the unusally sun-soaked afternoons before the pool closes for the season.

He and Rose head there after school most days. Their first stop, as usual, is the corner store for crisps and soda, and then, hand in hand, they make their way to the pool. There they sit, jeans rolled up, and bare feet dangling in the refreshingly cool water of the shallow end—it’s slightly more shaded and private, away from the cannonballs of his classmates on the other side of the pool.

It wouldn’t be _his_ first choice of places to go, but Rose likes it… and he tries. For her. For his part… wellll, he doesn’t mind it, he supposes. She’d certainly joined him on _his_ choice of after-school adventures over the first month of school, and it feels… _good_ … to be going on a kind of adventure that is _her_ choice.

And from the way she’s spent the past weeks reaching out for his hand, and the affection in her eyes when she looks at him… and more recently, the way she’s pulled herself on tiptoe to kiss him, he can tell it feels good to Rose, too.

(Even Donna is gleeful about the arrangement—but he doesn’t let that stop him from enjoying it).

They still talk… and study. He writes sometimes, too—he still feels a bit awkward writing in his worn little notebook out in front of a crowd of people. It still feels almost like he’s baring his soul in front of a group of strangers. Somehow though, with Rose there beside him, it doesn’t feel like his writing is anything to be embarrassed about. He’s even talked about his story ideas once or twice to her. She _cares_ , and it makes him feel bolder… _braver_. Like he’s turning into the version of himself—the bold, brash adventurer—that he’d always wanted to be.

"You gonna write tonight?"

 

She knocks a bare, tanned knee against his own, and he looks up, quirking an eyebrow at her. “Hmm?”

 

"I saw you writing in your notebook earlier, mister. Come on. Give it up. Whatcha got planned for your adventurer this time?"

 

He considers this. "I was thinking... he meets a girl. Falls for her. Goes on adventures together with her. He's still an adventurer, but it’s different now. Better.” He shrugs, and squeezes her hand.

 

He looks up at her to find hersmiling—her grin is soft and absolutely enchanted. He blushes furiously. _He_ knows he’s been using Rose as inspiration… and he’s just mentioned his character has fallen for the girl, and he wonders if she’s figured it out too. If somehow she _knows_.

 

She bites her lip, still beaming at him. "Better with two?”

"Oh, absolutely."

 

 _Better with two._ He likes that. Excellent line, really—he’ll have to ask her if maybe he can borrow it for his story. He’d credit her of course. In more ways than one, it’s her story too—

 

His thoughts are interrupted and fade into background static as she leans close, and presses her lips to his in a brief, sweet kiss.

 

She pulls away after a moment with a smile, tangling the fingers of one hand into her hair and using the other hand to lap water from the pool up onto her legs. “Blimey, it’s hot.”

 

He doesn’t know quite where the question comes from—maybe from the giddiness of the moment or the way she was just looking at him—but it dives off his lips with an exuberance he wouldn’t have expected from himself.

 

"Wanna jump in?"

 

She looks up at him, her eyebrows arched in pleased surprise. "I thought you'd never ask."

 

Before he can respond, she’s on her feet, taking his hand and pulling him up. She takes her mobile out of her pocket and puts it on their pile of textbooks in the corner. He follows her lead, first removing his story notebook, then his own mobile, leaving them safe, secure, and alone off to the side with their bags.

 

Swinging their hands back and forth, she leads him to the deep end of the pool, waving to a few of her friends along the way. She takes a few steps back, rolls up her jeans as far up her legs as she can, and smiles up at him.

 

“Ready then?”

 

He nods, a bit nervous, but yeah… yeah he is.

 

Together, they jump.


End file.
